


The Brute and the Beast

by Silver_Basilisk



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Campfire stories, Children's Stories, Dettlaff did good, Folklore, Gen, Monsters, Philosophizing, Post-Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC), Storytime, The Witcher Lore, Vampires, Vizima
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:08:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24009376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silver_Basilisk/pseuds/Silver_Basilisk
Summary: Once a month, a circle gathers around the campfire on the outskirts of Vizima, and stories are told. When a stranger shows up uninvited, he volunteers the tale of the Brute of Lyria - and quite different from the one folk tell.(Regis gets to do what he loves most - tell long stories, this time about Dettlaff).Post-Blood & Wine.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12





	The Brute and the Beast

The fire gave out a friendly crackle and sent a dozen blazing sparks into the air. The kids huddled around it, whispering excitedly as old Agneska fed the last log into the fire and shuffled the coals with a long charred stick. It wasn’t midnight yet, but the children were growing restless. When midnight strikes, the fire will be put out, and their cheerful party dispersed. But this was their night, their reward after another month of toil, and they wanted it to last forever. So they watched the old woman’s movements intently, whispering to each other, careful not to make too much rattle - old Agneska was a strict ruler of their fireside realm. If they wanted to hear the rest of the story, they had to obey. And so they did - never has such discipline been observed in the village on the outskirts of Vizima than during old Agneska’s full moon storytime. Even the older ones, who’ve worked in the fields alongside their parents for a few harvests now, kept from flirting and bickering, and the babes sat calmly in their arms. There were fifteen of them altogether, plus old Agneska, wiry and crinkled like a dry plum. 

“…And terrible was the plague that the ghost ship brought”, she rasped at last. “No living soul stepped onto the shore, but Death herself, the ever-fair lady, clad all in red. She crept along the streets of war-torn Cintra, whispering into the windows, and souls followed her, aye they did. She took them all, wasn’t picky, that one. Babes and sweet maidens and old crones she took, and men of all sorts she took, and their cattle too, and none she gave back. Naught would stop her, and naught would step in her way, and those who dared were swept into the folds of her blood-red cloak. To rats she whispered, and rats carried her from home to home, from bed to bed, from father to son. Folk locked their doors, aye they did; little it helped them. They tried to flee, and carried the disease with them. Barred were the gates to mighty cities, and Old Vizima was gone to the world: all you could hear at night if you stood by its walls were the wails of the suffering, and Death’s quiet laughter. And yet she spilled from the cursed town, into the rivers, into the villages, poisoning all she could reach. Not enough living were left to bury the dead. Empty houses she left behind, and survivors burnt them to the ground, never entering, too scared to touch the bodies that lay within. Tall were their pyres. It came here, too, children, but stopped short of our doors, Melitele be blessed, our goddess merciful. Scared we was, aye, real scared; but here’s what came to be. A man came along, with yellow eyes of a cat and two swords on his back, long and sharp. He lurked in the dark, and scared Death’s servants away - the glowing beasts that tore into flesh and souls, and the dead things that crawled in the night, and the tortured spirits whose breath carried the plague. No matter how she tried, the lady Death couldn’t touch him, as if enchanted he was to withstand her grip. Folk say that Death halted then, and advanced no more, and shed her crimson cloak till time came for her to march again. I know tis true, for I was ‘ere when it happened, and saw the cat-eye meself. No man he was, but a…”

“A witcher, wasn’t he?”

The voice that came from the dark was not unpleasant, and carried a certain spark. But it startled them all the same, for the stranger, wrapped in a thin, patched grey cloak, made no sound to announce his arrival - not a twig cracked, not a gust of wind blew. 

Old Agneska furrowed her brows, measuring up the stranger. He was tall and lean, and smelled faintly of herbs and spices. Too many children in the circle, she thought, but Mikol and Cerk were bigger than him, all working muscle. They’d have no trouble bringing him to heel if need be, unless he was armed. She hoped he wasn’t armed. 

“Forgive me”, the stranger went on in haste. “Terribly rude of me, barging in on you like this and interrupting. I'm afraid I was quite lost, saw the fire on the hill and made for it in hopes that I'd find help here. And then I heard your enchanting tale and couldn't but wonder if you were recounting the events of the unfortunate Catriona epidemic that ravaged these lands some years ago”. 

“Aye”, huffed old Agneska, throwing a glance at the children - their looks more curious than intimidated. Travelers weren’t seen often in those parts, not after the war. “If you come in peace, you may sit with us, if you like; but newcomers must all pay a fee”. She smirked.

“I shall be glad to oblige”, the stranger said, warmly. “A hearty tale is worth more than a thousand orens. But I am but a wandering barber surgeon, and don’t have much to offer, except for my humble services”. 

“A barber surgeon, eh? Aye, we could use one in the village. Milly’s son cut himself something bad just two nights past, and Mikol’s here father has a tooth bother him. But ‘ere we ask for a different pay, don’t we, children?” She looked around expectantly. 

“Sto-ry! Sto-ry! Sto-ry!” They clapped and chanted in unison. 

The stranger chuckled and settled himself comfortably between the wide-shouldered Mikol and Lenka, his little sister, an imp of a child if old Agneska ever saw one. He drew back his hood, exposing a thin, tired face, an aquiline nose and black eyes gleaming from under his bushy eyebrows. The company studied him curiously, from his greying sideburns to fingerless gloves and worn-out boots. 

“That, my dears, I’d be happy to provide; you need but name a subject”. 

The circle has shifted; old Agneska was no longer the main point of interest, and the children looked hungrily at the newcomer, eager to share and question. 

“Tell about witches! We ‘ad a witch ‘ere, me mum says. Real, like. Did magic and all”, one boy said.  
“No, tell us of lands you traveled! Is it true that in Ofier they have djinns that can grant wishes, any wishes at all?” cried another.  
“I could use one of ‘em”, grunted Cerk, towering over the smaller kids.  
“Rusalkas! Rusalkas!”  
“I want a story about cursed graves! Can you curse a grave?”  
“Do you know the story of the witcher girl?”  
“I’ll be a witcher girl when I grow up!”  
“Our blacksmith swears he saw a vampire once, have you seen any?”

The voices were drowning each other out, and old Agneska would have none of it.  
“Shush!” She barked, and as by magic, the cacophony died down. 

A single voice rang in silence.  
“Tell us a vampire story!” demanded little Lenka, unperturbed. A few heads nodded in agreement.  
Old Agneska looked at her sternly, but said nothing. 

“Very well, then. I have a story for you, little one, and there’s a vampire in it, as you wished”. The stranger made himself comfortable, and looked at the fire, gathering his thoughts. The girl squealed in delight, and was quickly hushed by her neighbors, whose eyes bore into the new storyteller eagerly. 

“Once upon a time, there lived a… vampire”. The stranger winked at his audience, and the children shuffled in excitement. “He was tall, pale, and dark, and not at all like the vampires you hear of in your bedtime stories. His eyes were blue like ice, features noble, and in all, he looked rather human”. 

“He left his home when he was quite young, just over a hundred years behind him, for he had little in common with the youths of his tribe. See, vampires have tribes, which are like families to them. But that vampire did not approve of the habits his fellow tribesmen shared. Their appetite for human blood revolted him, because he knew that vampires didn't need blood to survive, but drank it for merriment, like wine. He had no taste for wild feasts where whole villages - just like yours - were devoured. So he left, and shunned from vampires and humans alike. The humans were many and had no liking for his kind, so he kept his distance, and lived alone in his house in the wilderness. His friends were the bruxa and the katakan, the ekkimara and the gharkain - all lesser vampires, always hungry for blood, but they obeyed him and stayed clear of human villages. In turn, he took care of them, and was content, for they knew not deception, or treachery, or judgement. But one day, his precious tools broke - for he had a taste for the crafts, you see, and passed his time carving wood. So he went to the nearest village to get them fixed. People in general paid him no mind, but in this village they scoffed him - a stranger, unaware of their customs, and looking quite different from the common folk, both in face and dress. Some took him for a noble, and who likes their kind? As he waited near the blacksmith’s shop, a young boy approached the vampire. He saw that he was alone, and struck a conversation with him, and offered him an apple”.

The stranger looked over his audience.

“That little act of kindness had greatly moved the vampire. He was still wary and shy of people, but let the boy talk to him, and tell him little tales. The child showed him his favorite wooden toys, and how they worked. The vampire left the village with his tools fixed and a warm feeling in his chest, a feeling he’d never known before. Weeks went by, but still he remembered the kind little boy, and thought of making a toy for him as a gift. And then the monster came”.

His audience tensed up.

“It was fierce and ruthless, and devoured all on its path. It would be known as the Brute of Lyria for many, many years to come. For it mowed through any living creature it came upon, across Rivia and Spalla, and at last found its way to the small Lyrian village, and killed many, and brought much woe to the men. The vampire heard of it from his lesser friends, and remembered the boy and his apple, and hurried to the village to ask after his little friend. But alas… the boy fell victim to the monster just the night before, just like the rest of his family”.

The children gasped. 

“The vampire was sad and angry. Of all the creatures he had ever met, that little boy was the only thing that made him feel the strange, unfamiliar warmth in his chest. So he clenched his fists, bared his fangs and went after the monster”.

“Day and night he tracked him, sniffing him out, and in the end he found a forest clearing where the monster has built its lair. It was a fearsome beast - a fiend as big as your barn, claws sharp as knives, horns twisted, fur shagged, and its magic third eye would freeze you dead in your tracks. Many a peasant fell its prey, many a knight fought their last against it. But the vampire was neither. He growled at the beast and transformed, like vampires do when they are ready to fight. His face changed into a maw, fangs drew out, nails lengthened into razor-sharp talons. The beast set its hypnotic third eye on the foe, but no magic could entrance the vampire. Angered, the fiend charged with astonishing speed, but met only a wisp of smoke, for vampires can shift their shapes and vanish into thin air. The last thing it felt were the vampire’s claws tearing through its flesh. And thus the terrible monster was slain, and the vampire’s little friend avenged”. The stranger paused. 

“What happened to the vampire then?” asked little Lenka, unable to contain her curiosity. “Did he become a hero? Did he get a princess in reward and live happy ever after?”

Old Agneska could’ve sworn that a cloud swept over the stranger’s face, but so light it was, and so fast was it gone, that she wondered if the shadows thrown by the dancing flames played a trick on her weakened eyes. 

“What is a happily ever after for an immortal being, I wonder?" He shook his head. "Alas, my dear. Vampires, as you very well know, are not our usual storybook heroes, and are feared rather more than cherished. No, that vampire didn’t want to draw attention to his person. So he found a village hunter sleeping soundly near his traps, and threw the monster’s body at his feet, and put a bloodied dagger in his hand. And when the sun came up and the village awoke, the legend was born. Folk said that the hunter’s dagger was blessed by Saint Lebioda, who guided his hand in the dark of the night. That, of course, explained why the poor bloke had no memories of killing the fiend”.

“But the vampire? What did he do?”

“He went back to his forest hut for a while, and then traveled the world, and got to know its ways a little better, and made some wonderful wooden toys for the children he met on his way”. The stranger smiled and paused, as if hesitating. “The only other thing I could tell you, oh curious one, is that many years later he rescued someone. Another vampire, in fact, who'd risked his life to protect his human friends, and got trapped in glass and stone by a vile mage. With his own blood, our vampire gave him back his life, and found a friend and brother in him”. 

“So they lived happy ever after, then?” the girl exclaimed. 

A cloud, a cloud it was indeed, old Agneska thought to herself. Of pain and sadness, shadowing his eyes for a fleeting moment. He'd known loss, the barber surgeon. She knew the look. 

The stranger seemed reluctant to answer, but after a long pause, he did. “No, my dear, as much as I'd loathe spoiling the story for you. Our vampire found his one true love in a human woman, but she abandoned him and tricked him into doing terrible things, and it left him angry and bitter. He grew to believe that after all, most humans were deceitful like her. And then… he became a monster himself”.

“Did he hurt people? Did they call a witcher to slay him?”

“Hmm. As smart as you're curious, aren't you?" Lenka beamed at him without shame. "Our vampire didn't hurt people, but let his friends, the bruxae and the katakans, wreak havoc in his stead. And no mere mortal could slay him, sweet child. Not even a witcher. He was strong and fierce, power incarnate. So in the end, his friend did. He found him, and fought him, and won. And for that he became anathema, an outcast among vampires, as he chose humans over his own. But perhaps he survived the wrath of his elders. Who knows? Perhaps he wandered the world, and lived among people. Perhaps he even told this story to a curious little girl like you, and she told a little bird, and that bird told me”. He gave her a smile.

Lenka pondered his answer. The other children kept quiet, respecting her brave questioning of the stranger. 

“No happy ever after, then”, she said after a pause. “The vampire was good. But then he got bad and died. And his friend must be very sad, because friends protect friends, not fight them”. 

“Indeed”, agreed the stranger. “By telling you the rest of the story, I wanted to give you a gift, little one. A gift of truth. For the truest stories don’t always have a happily ever after, and often there’s no right choice to be made. So in the end... we choose the lesser evil”.

A silence ensued. Lenka studied the stranger, her gaze now captured by an elegant pin - a strange moth with what looked like a woman's head - that gleamed from the gap in his cloak. Old Agneska noticed that the three youngest children have dozed off in their siblings’ arms, lulled by the barber surgeon’s melodic voice. 

“Did that vampire have a name?” Lenka asked at last. “Baba Agneska says every hero has a name, even bad ones”.

The stranger looked at the glowing embers. “I think if you asked the little bird, it'd say the name was Dettlaff. Dettlaff van der Eretin. Of Nazair”. 

“Oi, children! Mikol! Lenka! Time for bed, we rise early on the morrow!”  
A woman was walking towards the fire, and all the children sighed at once. The magic circle was broken, until the next full moon shone bright over the village. 

One by one, the children stood up, thanking the stranger and bowing to old Agneska. In little groups, they vanished in the dark, their steps hurrying towards the sleepy village. Lenka held her mother’s hand, already retelling her the stories she heard that night. 

The old woman watched them depart, and allowed a wide smile to creep over her face. The little vixen remembered all her yarns. She’d be the next to spin them, when old Agneska was no more. 

“Thank you, master barber, for your worldly tale”, old Agneska said. She spread the dying embers over the clearing with her stick. “The lil’uns don’t see foreign folk here often. Roads too dangerous nowadays. Gave them a treat ‘ere, you did”.

“Oh, not at all. It was my pleasure. Reminded me of my own childhood, in fact. The campfire, the full moon... And I do enjoy telling stories. In fact, my friends often chide me for it. They say I go on forever and never know when to stop”. He shook his head, smiling, and offered old Agneska his hand as she made to stand up. “And please, call me Regis”. 

“You need a place to stay then, master Regis? My hut is small, but you can sleep by the hearth”. 

“Oh”, the barber pondered her invitation for a second. “I suppose I do. I was to be in Vizima by now, but my horse lost two hooves, and I had to leave it in the tavern east of here. The smith is away, so it’d take a couple of days to get her fixed. Thought I’d make for town before it got dark and they locked the gates, but seems like I took the wrong turn and got a little lost. So I thank you for your kind offer, and I’ll be sure to repay your hospitality by tending to your neighbors’ ailments”. 

“Be my guest, then”. 

The old woman took his arm, stomped over the embers to make sure not a spark was left, and they made their way into the village without a hurry. The night was quiet and serene, trees and houses throwing long shadows in the moonlight. Old Agneska’s eyes were of little use the dark, so if her companion left no shadow at all as he walked, she'd never notice. 

Her hut was small indeed, but homely; she fed a few logs into the hearth and stirred the fire alive. The barber surgeon spread his bedroll in front of the hearth, and sat on it, stretching his long legs. He watched the fire, his back to the room, giving old Agneska a chance to change into her nightclothes. When she was settled in bed, drawing a thick woolen blanket over her frail form, he suddenly stirred. 

“Sorry to bother you, my dear - I can see you are about retire for the night. I only wished to ask one last question. The witcher you spoke of earlier this night, one who came through the village during the epidemic. Cat eyes aside, do you remember what he looked like? You were here, weren't you?”

Old Agneska shot him a sharp glance from the corner of her eye, the many wrinkles on her time-kissed face moving as she smirked. “He was tall, white-haired and covered in scars, one right across his face”, she said. “Stay a few days, master Regis. I have many more stories to tell”. 

“So I shall, my dear. So I shall”.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, would love your feedback! Thanks for reading! :)


End file.
